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3. PAIN AND NOVOCAINE
MALACHI
“I’m thinking of raising my agent fees.” His voice sounded the way the movies portrayed God’s voice; calm yet strong, steady but with a hint of mystery. Luckily Alfred was not God or I'd—
“A five percent raise sound good to you?”
Tilting my head towards his voice I opened my eyes and found him sitting in a chair beside me with his feet kicked up onto a small space of the bed, and, as he finished peeling his tangerine, he stuck a piece between his lips. He wasn't watching me but the television across from the hospital bed.
“How much do you currently make?”
He paused and looked to me. Annoyed he shook his head and asked, “What do you do with the contracts I give you?”
“Sign the last page and give them back to you.”
He sucked his teeth, he frowned. “Why do I even bother?” He muttered and continued eating.
“Guilt.” I reminded him. Alfred Noëlle, great director, and the man who carried the death of my mother on his shoulders, had devoted more than twenty years of his life to watching over the son that had been left behind.
“Guilt.” He repeated as he nodded to himself. Rising from his chair he gathered his stuff and walked to the door.
“How long was I out this time?”
“Twelve hours.”
“Not bad.” I hadn't meant for him to hear but he did and being the man he was... he had to comment.
“Do you even remember what happened?” he asked me, and in all honesty I'd been so used to coming to the hospital that I hadn’t thought about…
Shit. “The accident.”
“Yes.” He pointed to the screen and I focused on it for the first time ever, watching myself as I pulled the woman from the car, and reading my name on the banner under the video: Malachi Lord: Hero.
“Shit!” I sat up quickly, apparently too quickly and my shoulder ached in protest. “Alfred, tell them to take it down—”
“Do I look like the Wizard of Oz? How? You chose the slowest news day in America’s history to publicly expose yourself. Your days of hiding are over, Malachi.”
“No…No!” I hollered, panic setting in as I watched myself on screen. The more I watched, the more pain I was in until I found myself hunched over and slamming my palm over my right eye. Grinding my teeth, I tore off all the wires attached to my body before it brought in the white coats.
“Malachi!” He reached over to me but I smacked his hands away.
“I need to go home!” I snapped at him.
“Malachi you need the doctor—”
“THEY CAN’T HELP ME!”
“You can’t leave like this, you need to calm down.”
I didn’t say anything as I rolled onto my side and focused on the chair he’d been sitting in. And slowly, far too slowly, like the calm waters after a tsunami, the pain retreated…leaving that familiar feeling of Novocaine in my mouth. As I lay there like the pitiful waste of flesh I was, I wondered for maybe the billionth time, what I had done to be cursed like this.
“Malachi?”
“She’s going to find me, Al
fred,” I whispered despairingly. I’d made a mistake. Twenty-nine…thirty years next weekend, that’s how long I’d been able to avoid her, and now with my face plastered everywhere… and all because I’d saved the old woman who for some absurd reason I’d felt bad for.”
“At least the pain will end, Malachi.”
